


Rosie Watson's Casebook

by PagesInAChapter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-02-12 03:25:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12950280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PagesInAChapter/pseuds/PagesInAChapter
Summary: Rosamund "Rosie" Watson has enjoyed..... Well, not a peaceful life. But an interesting one. Now seventeen, she aspires to take after her father and uncle. After all, she's grown up on stories of their cases, sometimes tagging along or seeing the aftermath of a case. So it makes sense that, when a man with everything to live for slits his wrists, Rosie is up for the challenge.





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue

"Your mother would be so proud of you." John said unexpectedly. Confused, Rosie looked up from where she was folding paper cranes. Her father was in his armchair with a newspaper, flicking the pages absently. It was likely that he hadn't even looked up when he spoke. Even more likely that he hadn't realised he'd even said anything at all. Abandoning her army of cranes, Rosie leaned over to drape herself over the arm of the chair and rest against John's shoulder. Hearing stories about her mum was always nice, even though there weren't many. Sometimes it seemed like John was intentionally keeping things from her.  
"Really?"

At this response John looked up, puzzled. He folded the newspaper in his lap and smiled warmly, twisting around to hug Rosie and drag her over onto his lap. "She would. Happy birthday, sweetheart." His eyes kept darting to the door, even as he kissed her forehead lightly. Rosie noted this silently and pulled back, also watching the door. What was John waiting for? Was it.... Rosie sat up and scrambled out of John's grip and sat up on the arm of the chair. Was it Sherlock they were waiting for?

Almost as soon as the thought had gone through her head the door exploded open with a bang. Rosie yelped and toppled backwards, hitting the coffee table with a thud that made her teeth clack together. Dimly, she could hear John cursing and another voice speaking placatingly. A pair of hands wrapped around her forearms and pulled, guiding Rosie back to her feet. She shook her head, flicking her long blonde hair over one shoulder and blinked. In the doorway stood Sherlock his expression passive. However, his nostrils had flared in a way that told Rosie that he'd probably had a minor heart attack. "I'm okay." She pronounced, rubbing the back of her head. John smiled and ruffled her hair.

"Sorry, Watsons, I'm in a rush. Something came up." There was a box in Sherlock's arms. He put it down on the carpet and promptly locked the door. Then he darted across the room to draw the curtains. When he turned to look at them, Rosie could see dirt of some kind smeared across his face. Ash? Possibly. John stood up warily, his hand on Rosie's shoulder.

"What is it? Sherlock....!"

"Nothing, nothing. Rosie, open your present and then we'll take you to Jemma's, okay?" Sherlock grabbed John and steered him out of the lounge room hurriedly, calling a 'happy birthday' over his shoulder. Rosie just stayed in her dad's armchair, a bit shocked. The adults had closed the kitchen door behind them, and she couldn't make out the words in their raised voices. She was twelve now, for gods' sake! She'd been on cases before, albeit with John's reluctance. But still, they tried their best to conceal the worst of the cases from her. Quietly she hopped off the chair and crossed the room to the box. It was about the size of her pillow. Circular holes had been cut into the cardboard lid.

Quietly she tugged at the string keeping the box closed and slid the lid off. Big brown eyes stared up at her from inside. A tail wagged warily, and the puppy stumbled its way to the edge of the box. It was too little to properly stand up and see over the lip, but Rosie carefully lifted it out and put it on the carpet between her legs. She tried to think of something to call out to her guardians but came up with nothing. Instead, she just ran her fingers through the silky golden fur of the puppy. In reply, it reached up to lick her chin. "You must be so tired." Indeed, the puppy seemed less active than ones she'd met before. Hopefully Sherlock hadn't given it concussion running up the stairs. "I'm naming you Victor." This was a story that John and Sherlock hadn't meant for her to hear, but Sherlock's origins fascinated her.

John stormed out of the kitchen and stoped in his tracks as Rosie turned around with Victor in her arms. "A golden retriever? Sherlock, I thought we agreed on a small dog!"

"His name is Victor." Rosie said earnestly.

Sherlock blanched but pulled himself together quickly as he exited the kitchen swiftly. "Good name. Welcome to Baker Street, Victor. John, have you got her stuff together?" He glanced at John, who in reply held up a little pink backpack. The emergency bag, Rosie realised. When she was still a baby they'd put together a small bag of supplies she'd need if they ever had to evacuate her, as well as a list of essentials that could not be packed. Her teddy bear from when she was five years old, for instance. It had been coming out less and less over the years as she got older and cases got gentler, so.... they must be dealing with a serial killer. That was always fun.

Yes, definitely a serial killer. There was a wild expression in Sherlock's eyes as he dashed to the curtain and looked out, scanning the street. John hissed in a breath anxiously as he slipped the bag over Rosie's shoulders and buckled the strap over her chest, giving Victor a pat as he did so."You're alright, you'll be fine. We'll all be fine. Right, Sherlock?" There was a hard tone to his voice that made Rosie think he was looking for confirmation. Unfortunate. Sherlock just turned sharply and steepled his long fingers under his chin.

"Of course we will, but right now it seems unlikely. He knows where we are."

"Brilliant!" John shouted.

\---

They took a cab to Jemma's house and dropped off Rosie and Victor with hurried, PG-rated explanations to Mrs. Gordon. No matter how gently John tried to put it, there was no way around the fact that they were possibly being hunted by a serial killer. "Don't worry," John reassured her, "Sherlock's provided decoys to make sure they don't know we came here." Naturally, Mrs. Gordon did not find this reassuring but she agreed to look after Rosie for as long as it took to be safe again. However, it took a bit of convincing for her to allow Victor in the house– once Jemma had seen the puppy, she'd clamoured until her mother finally agreed.

"We'll be back before you know it." John kissed Rosie's forehead, and Sherlock ruffled her hair, and then they were gone. For a moment Rosie stood, watching the cab leave with John and Sherlock in the back. Then Jemma grabbed her wrist with one brown hand, and Rosie looked over to see her smiling. Jemma's front teeth had recently been knocked out, and she kept poking her tongue through the gap. After some hurried greetings the girls darted inside, moving carefully so as not to wake Victor who had fallen asleep in Rosie's arms.

Rosie carefully lay Victor on Jemma's bed and dropped, cross-legged, to the floor. Jemma collapsed over her, hugging her from behind. "So, what's going on? How are you? How's your dad? What's with the dog? He's cute, I hope you named him something good. Was he a birthday present? You're so lucky–!"

Rosie clapped a hand over Jemma's mouth and started trying to answer the questions. "This is Victor. And dad...." Sometimes John wasn't the best. Even though it had been twelve years since Mary had died and seventeen since Sherlock's.... accidents (nobody told her more than that) he would still occasionally call out in his sleep. Sometimes it would be her mother's name, a low, pained groan drifting from John's room in the dark or a high-pitched yelp of panic. Other times it was Sherlock's name. These nights.... they scared Rosie the most. It sounded as though her dad's life was being ripped out of him in a wail. But she didn't tell Sherlock about them. John wouldn't want that.

Jemma raised her hands in surrender. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. Serial killer, yeah? They seemed to be in a rush. What's the story?"

"The story?"

"You went through their things, right?"

Heat rose in Rosie's cheeks, but she took her phone out of the emergency bag and unlocked it. Yes, she'd taken photos of things in the cab, to try and figure out what was happening. A photo of the inside of Sherlock's bag showed his phone, a rusty key, and a torn piece of paper with smudged writing. "I don't think they have much yet. It–"

Across London the girls could feel the explosion. Both leaped to their feet and scrambled to the window, patting Victor as he started barking and whimpering. A cloud of smoke ballooned into the air, a dark fiery rush that burned the sky. For a moment they sat in silence, staring. Then Jemma said, "You think that had something to do with them?"

"Probably."

"Think they're okay?"

Rosie thought about it. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, still taking on cases together even after all these years? Working together, they could do anything. "Probably."


	2. The Broken Souls

It was too bright outside. Streetlights blotted out the night sky, forcing it into a suffocating blanket of orangey-black. The bright light burned Rosie's eyes and she ducked her head, tying her jacket over her head to try and filter it out, prevent the migraines it was giving. Beside her, Victor whined softly and wagged his tail. He'd grown into a big dog over the years, never leaving Rosie's side. Which was problematic. "They'll notice you've gone." She whispered to him disapprovingly. If Victor was aware of her tone he didn't show it, only snarled at a man across the street and nudged Rosie along.

The pair staggered up the steps to 221B Baker Street, Rosie's hand circling Victor's collar as if he was the only thing keeping her awake. When she opened the door, it creaked and Mrs Hudson stepped out of her kitchen. She was clearly dressed for bed, but there was an expression of pity on her face as she turned the lights on. Rosie winced, flinched away from the lights as Victor whined and poked Mrs Hudson's knee with his nose. "Good morning, Rosamund." she said, probably louder than necessary. "Did you enjoy your party?"

"What...." Rosie's voice was a slur and she winced again. How had Mrs Hudson known where she was? Probably Sherlock. He'd been staring at Rosie weirdly for days.

Mrs Hudson's eyes crinkled in sympathy and she patted Rosie's shoulder. "They're waiting for you upstairs. Get it over with." Rosie turned to go, facing the stairs, when Mrs Hudson called after her, "Oh, Greg's up there too." Rosie paused and closed her eyes briefly, praying for mercy. Hopefully he was just over for a visit, and not because Rosie had been officially missing all night. Likely, it was both. At the door to the flat Rosie sighed and tried to fix her hair, tucking back behind her ears. The alice band she usually wore was probably lost forever at Jemma's house. Without a mirror, it was impossible to tell how disheveled she looked. Taking a breath, Rosie pushed the door open.

The three men were sitting around the table, having a murmured conversation in the dark. When Victor exploded in and tackled Greg, probably looking for treats, both John and Sherlock turned to look at Rosie. She smiled sheepishly and took a step forward, only to be stopped as Sherlock raised a hand. "I wouldn't come closer if I were you, Rose, unless you want your father to smell the alcohol on your breath."

"What?!" John exploded.

"She's clearly drunk, John."

"Even I can see that one." Greg admitted, ruffling Victor's ears. The dog sighed happily and curled up at his feet, clearly in total bliss. Absently, Greg kept scratching behind his ears. "She clearly thought she was being quiet on the stairs. Rosie, we could all hear you." Rosie glowered at him silently, leaning against the doorframe. However, as he was one of Victor's favourite people, there was not much she could do to protest unless she wanted her dog to turn on her. 

She took a step forward and collapsed face first on the couch, stretching her arms over her head. "I'm not that drunk." She lifted her head, trying to sit up like a regular human being, but her vision swam and she had to lean back with her eyes closed. A groan hissed between her lips, and John gave a short growl of annoyance in response. He only worried because he loved her, Rosie knew that. But it was... frustrating, not being allowed to do what the other girls her age did. Sure, she could try, but none of them but Jemma liked her anyway. After all, she was the child of London's most famous people. Mrs Hudson, Sherlock, Greg, John, Mollie.... they all called her their child.

"I've got you, dear." Amazing. Rosie hadn't even feel Mrs Hudson come in. The old woman's hands touched her arms, her shoulders, dull little pricks that her mind almost failed to perceive. Rosie bid goodnight to the three men at the table, all of whom seemed to be promising a good lecture in the morning, and clung to Mrs Hudson's arm as the the landlady led her to the bedroom. Without even the energy to thank her, Rosie staggered inside and collapsed into bed, jeans and converse sneakers and all.

\----

Despite her hangover when the sun glared through the curtains, Rosie forced herself out of bed and to the shower, where she stripped down and hugged the tile walls of the shower. Soap lathered in her hair, left bubbling trails across her skin like snail slime, and everywhere, everywhere, it cut through the dirt and stains and smoke and ash of the party the night before. Rosie lifted her hands, her arms almost too heavy to function, and scrubbed furiously at her hair. She had the dim memory of someone spilling beer on her head– She was not short, by any means, but she didn't have much of a public presence. Hence the constant spilled drinks.

The water pounded against her bones, as loud and heavy as bullets, and Rosie was all too glad when she could she it off and get dressed in the softest clothes she could find. The heavy clanging continued, however, like a knocking against the inside of her skull and fire behind her eyes. She took a moment to rest against the wall of the hallway, doubling over and jamming the heels of her hands into her eyes to try and quench the fire. However, the pressure succeeded only in making her stomach flip over, and she barely made it back to the bathroom before she threw up.

Sherlock found her there, lying against the tile in an attempt to cool the fire, and dragged her to her feet. When Rosie groaned and grabbed at him, searching for anchor to cling to the still-spinning world, he led her to his armchair and pushed her down roughly. "Feels great, doesn't it?" No sarcasm in his voice, but no concern either. Just..... nothing. The tone of Sherlock, she supposed.

"Just kill me now, I know you want to." She cast a hand out wildly, and sure enough Sherlock placed a glass of water in her palm. She sipped at it cautiously, aware of her blood rushing in her ears and the acidic taste that still clung to her mouth.

Sherlock sat at the table on the edge of his seat, a steaming cup of tea in his hands. He took a sip, eyes not leaving her face. "Kill you? No, I need an assistant today."

Assistant. Rosie looked up slowly, the word tunnelling through her fuzzy thoughts and sharpening them, focusing them on Sherlock's smug smile. "Assistant? What about dad? What's going on?" She really didn't like that smile. She'd only seen it a couple of times, usually at the end of a lull in the crime flow of London. Usually when they brought out her emergency bag when she was little, or told her to go and pack it when she grew old enough to handle it herself.

"John's fine. He's got a job interview, though, for the hospital, so he's useless to me today. Get your dog and put a jacket on." With no other explanation Sherlock threw on a heavy black trench coat and left the apartment, leaving Rosie to scramble for her watermelon hoodie and boots. She whistled for Victor, and heard the very recognisable sound of the dog falling off her bed and pelting down the hallway. 

She quickly wrapped a hand around his muzzle before he could start barking at the sight of the leash in her hand, bobbing down to look him in the eyes. "You mustn't wake dad, okay? Whatever Sherlock wants me for, I don't think he'd approve. So don't ruin this for us." Victor squirmed, his entire body shaking with excitement, but he seemed to get the message and stayed quiet as she slipped his harness on and clipped the leash to it. While he could usually be trusted off-leash, she was pretty sure an overly curious golden retriever would not be a good thing to have a crime scene.

A crime scene. It had been so long, and a smile split her face from ear to ear as she jammed a white beanie on over her ears to protect herself from the cold. She glanced down at Victor, who was pacing and shifting his weight in impatience. Would he need a jacket too? It wasn't snowing, a quick glance outside showed her as much. And he'd been fine the night before, leading her home in the dark, all the way from Jemma's house. As if the memory had recalled it, her pulse echoed inside her skull and she winced.

Sherlock poked his head around the door, looking impatient. "How does it take you so long to get ready? Let's go!" He disappeared again, taking Victor with him. Rosie could hear them thumping down the stairs, and the squeak of the front door as it swung on it's hinges. Quickly and quietly, she gathered up her things, shoved them in a bag, and took off after them. However, she did pause to shut the door as quietly as possible, waiting for that single click to indicate it had locked before she flew down the stairs, laughing, calling out to Victor and Sherlock to wait for her. If they were going to work a case, she did not want to be left out of any part of it.


	3. Chapter 3

It was raining by the time Rosie, Sherlock, and Victor arrived at the little pub. All through the journey– a taxi, then a walk– Rosie had harassed Sherlock for information on what they were doing here, but he was very vague. "I need an assistant." Was all he said, continuously. When Rosie asked why, he merely shrugged and muttered something about having someone watching his back. Then the rain had started, a roar that drenched Rosie to the bone and soaked Victor so he looked like a drowned rat. Sherlock was the only one who didn't react to the downpour as he ducked under the police tape, barely sparing a glance to any of the officers. Rosie, however, was given merely curious glances before she followed Sherlock, hastily wrapping Victor's leash around her hand to shorten it, keep him closer to her.

Victor whined and pulled at the leash, almost dragging Rosie through the door of the pub. Whatever he could smell wasn't good; his ears were back and his teeth were bared. She inhaled, her boots clicking on the wooden floor as she walked towards where Sherlock was crouched on the ground with Greg Lestrade. Blood. That was definitely a blood smell. "What've we got?" She asked breezily, bobbing down next to Sherlock and wrapping her arms around Victor to keep him from picking at the form in front of her. Though there was a sheet draped over it, the dried blood was still visible from beneath the thin material. Sherlock glanced over at her, then gestured for Greg to uncover the body.

He did.

The first thing Rosie noticed was that his arms were spread in a T-shape. One dark-red fist was closed over a knife blade, which cut so deeply into the skin that the fingers were purple beneath the blood. His wrists had been crudely slashed, blood spilling over the palms and the sleeves of the woollen jacket. The second thing Rosie noticed was his face. Silver-blond hair that looked softer than clouds. Brilliant blue eyes that now gazed at nothing, dull and empty of the fire she'd seen there years ago. She stiffened, and Sherlock noticed. "What is it?"

"Mr Lowe, he used to teach my class when I was ten." She outstretched a hand, and at Greg's nod, closed his eyes with her fingers. "I.... haven't seen him for years. He retired when I went to high school."

"Retired four years ago. Married. Happily." Sherlock slipped on a pair of latex gloves and picked up Lowe's hand, examining the wedding ring on his finger. "What's in his jacket pockets?" Rosie released Victor and he started to circle the pub, nose to the ground, as she crawled over to the teacher's side. She pulled on her own gloves and started emptying every pocket on his person as Sherlock and Greg went off to talk. About what, she wasn't sure, but she was more interested in searching through her findings. 

A packet of gum, some lint, a bit of bloody string, mobile phone, wallet... Rosie pounced on the wallet and searched through it, collecting ten dollars in change, a drivers' licence, and a photo of Mr Lowe, Mrs Lowe, and their two adult children. She snorted, and looked up to Lowe's somewhat peaceful face. "You were a bit of an arsehole." She informed him, sealing the belongings into evidence bags. Naturally, her old teacher did not respond with so much as a breath. "Total arsehole. You know what, I'm really kind of glad you're dead." Her fingers brushed the mobile phone, and she paused. So much could be contained in a mobile phone. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to put it in an evidence bag yet.

Glancing around to check if anyone was watching, Rosie grabbed the phone and retreated to the bar, using it as a shelter to avoid being seen. She opened the phone and scrolled through it, searching through photos, phone calls, messages. One text, sent at the ungodly hour of 2.36am, read 'Meet me in the Green Apple'. Rosie squinted and fiddled with the text, but there didn't seem to be any others in that conversation, and it was from an unknown number.

So, naturally, she called it.

The phone was picked up on the third ring. "Murray? It's seven in the morning, what are you doing, honey?" A woman. Her voice was husky from sleep, but with a slight purr in the tone. Wife. But no, why an unknown number? Why not have her name saved to the contacts?

Lover? Probably. Whoever she was, she was getting more and more confused as Rosie's silence stretched on. "Murray? Are you there?"

"What is your relationship with Murray Lowe?" Rosie asked. There was a little gap, and the woman on the other end promptly hung up. When Rosie tried to call again, it went straight to voicemail. Rosie cursed softly under her breath.

A gloved hand snatched the phone from Rosie, and someone else hauled her to her feet. Quickly, she hopped up on the bar and spun around to stare into the angry faces of Sherlock and Greg. The phone dangled from Sherlock's fingers, as though holding it too close could infect him with something. Rosie crossed her arms, even as Greg started yelling at her, calling her a range of different names, while Sherlock just narrowed his eyes at her coolly. "Was it worth it, Watson?"

She figured he must be talking about the phone call. "He's having an affair. She texted him in the middle of the night and told him to come here. Presumably he's been dead for at least four hours. She sounded like she'd just woken up, so either she stood him up or someone else used her phone to text him." She turned her smug gaze on Greg, who rolled his eyes and muttered something about the next generation of sociopaths As he walked away. "I think we can rule out suicide as a cause of death."

"His fingerprints are on the knife handle." A woman, around Sherlock's age, her dark curly hair held up in a pony tail. She looked from Greg's retreating form to Rosie to Sherlock. "Hello, freak. Freak junior. Caused any trouble lately?"

"Not my daughter, Donovan, she's John's." Sherlock was circling the pub, looking at the walls and the edges of tables as if they were the most interesting things in the world. "And I'm sure 'freak junior' is not something she wants to be called."

Rosie turned an almost apologetic stare at Sally and patted her shoulder. "He's right. Refrain from calling me that or I'll take out your organs one by one so my dad can teach me about them. What's it matter that his fingerprints are on the knife? It's in his hand, of course there's going to be prints."

To her credit, Sally got over her horror quite quickly and rolled her shoulders back with a huff. "It has to be suicide. The pub doesn't open until six thirty, all the windows were locked. This was the man's favourite place. According to the bartender he was in here every other day, drowning his sorrows." She nodded to an elderly man talking to Greg on the other side of the pub. His face was ashen, and he kept gesturing to the body of Mr Lowe– thankfully, someone had thought to put a sheet back over his face and wrists. "He's also been to a therapist, quite often."

"Therapist, sure." Rosie nodded, taking a pen from Sally's pocket to write the information she'd gathered on her arm in stark, black ink. She stumbled over the word 'lover', pulling a disgusted face as she shook her sleeve back over her hand. Maybe Lowe had only been an arse to small children who were utterly undeserving of his wrath. "This guy, Sally, I wanted to kill him when I was ten. He was.... the worst teacher." She put the pen back in Sally's pocket and the woman immediately backed away, probably unnerved by the look in Rosie's eye. 

Sherlock drifted up beside her, as silent as a wraith, and grabbed her wrist. "Come on, we're going. John called."

"Did he now?" 

The pair stepped over the body, ducking around the photographers who had managed to get inside and managing to avoid Greg. Sherlock wouldn't meet Rosie's eyes, and when Rosie pulled out her own phone and turned it on, she could see why. "Fourteen missed calls?! I thought he was at a job–" The gears in her mind clicked and whirred as they stepped out in the rain with Victor darting over to walk at Rosie's side. "You knew I had Mr Lowe as a teacher. You wanted me to tell you things about him that you'd miss." She barked out a laugh. "You're actually concerned about missing clues now! What, old age getting the best of you?"

"Sometimes I wish your mother had, in fact, killed me."

Rosie simply stuck out her tongue at her godfather, rather childishly, and picked up the pace. The rain was really bucketing down now, the black clouds overhead blotting out the sun entirely. She kept a tight hold on Victor's leash, almost completely blind. The last thing she wanted was for him to go bolting off into the dark. "Sherlock, how are we getting home? Cab?" No response. She cast out a hand wildly. "Sherlock. Where'd you go?"

He grabbed her wrist and started pulling her along quickly, through the rain without a word. Victor, snarling, was pulled along as Rosie kept him close to her. Was it the rain he was snarling at? He'd never been a big fan of water, she knew that. "Hey, buddy, unnecessary." She ruffled his soaking ears as Sherlock propelled her into a nearby car, barely giving her time to duck her head. Victor jumped up on the seats and immediately shook out his fur with a growl.

"You know where to take her." Sherlock said simply, to the cabbie. But his voice was wrong. Bad. Off. Not Sherlock. Rosie's heart stuttered and she made a lunge for the door, shoving Victor ahead of her, but the man outside merely slammed it in her face as they drove off, picking up speed as they vanished into the darkness of the day.


	4. Chapter 4

It didn't take long for Rosie to figure to where she was heading and calm Victor down, while staying quiet in the backseat of the cab. Outside, the rain thundered heavily against the roof and windows, thousands of crystal battering rams determined to get inside. Rosie just zipped up her jacket and pulled the hood over her face, curling against Victor to stay warm. The dog was shivering, his fur drying in hard golden spikes as his breath fogged up the window. He didn't like the situation they were in, but he was determined to protect Rosie. 

The rain stopped as the car pulled into a small garage, and someone opened the door for her. Stumbling a little, Rosie stepped outside and stretched out her limbs as Victor started inspecting every suit-wearing man in the room. "I have a massive hangover so this better be worth it." She looked up at the man leaning on an umbrella at the other end of the garage, who looked exasperated as he closed his eyes.

"You are the embodiment of nature and nurture blending, Watson." Mycroft said bluntly, watching Victor examine each of his men. "You've got my little brother's attitude."

"And I'm more impatient than him, my dad, and my mum combined. I have homework I need to do and I've been kidnapped twice on the same day." Technically, Sherlock had kidnapped her. Lying to her about John and not telling him where she was counted. So, she drew a short switchblade from her bag and twirled it, making sure to keep it folded. Victor, having fully taken in the surroundings, trotted back and settled on the dirty cement by her feet.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening me, young Watson?"

"No, I'm warning you. What do you want?" Rosie kept the switchblade in the sleeve of her hoodie and crossed her arms, glaring as Mycroft moved closer. Victor, to his credit, didn't growl but he did stand up and wave his tail suspiciously. "Keep it short and sweet, Mycroft. I'm cold, I'm wet, and I really am super hungover. I mean, dear god...." Mycroft seemed unimpressed by Rosie's current situation, but stayed a good few metres away from her and simply looked at her, as if trying to find the words to phrase his thoughts.

Finally, he came up with a sigh. "Murray Lowe's murder is.... too close to your father. There was a girl in his class when he used to teach. John was the only doctor on scene when she died, and he couldn't save her. We're worried that these things might be connected, in some way."

"You think my dad is connected to a murder because he couldn't save a student?" Rosie echoed in disbelief. That day... She couldn't remember it well, she'd been learning the layoutt of middle school at the time. If she could recall correctly, it was the reason Lowe had retired in the first place. "No offences, uncle Mycroft, but that's total bull. Dad can take care of himself. and he's connected to so many people it'd be shocking if he hadn't done so much as pass an old teacher of mine on the streets. Much less lose a student and attend parent-teacher conferences with the man!" Had any of that even made sense? Her head was pounding, a rough, hot drum behind her eyes. "This is a waste of your time and mine, Mycroft."

Before Mycroft could answer Rosie's phone in her bag started ringing. Had it really taken Sherlock and John this long to realise she'd vanished? She turned pointedly and climbed back in the cab, not even checking the caller ID before answering it. "Hey, sorry, I'm safe–"

"Rose?"

"Jemma?" Rosie lowered her voice, cupping her other hand around the phone. "Jemma why are you calling?"

"Okay, number one, I found your alice band. It's more of a brownish colour now, so I chucked it. Number two, Sherlock and John are frantic. I believe they're....." There was a pause, and the rustle of plastic blinds. "Yeah, they're standing on the street arguing in the rain. I think it's getting physical. Where the hell are you?" 

Rosie hissed nd opened the cab door, signalling frantically for someone to hurry up and take her home. If only she had her drivers' license already... "Can you tell them I'm fine? Mycroft wanted to talk, that's all. Actually, can you put–"

"–get out of my house– yes it's Ro–" Jemma's voice was crackly, fading as if she'd let the phone go.

"Rosie?" John. Dammit. He sounded furious, and Rosie could almost imagine him standing in Jemma's room, steam coming from his ears with eyes like fire. So overprotective. "Rosie, where the bloody hell are you? Sherlock told me he lost you–"

"–I said I couldn't find her in the rain–"

"–Shut up Sherlock–"

Rosie said and held the phone away from her face while they argued, glaring daggers as the cab driver got back in the car and started driving back out into the rain in silence. Clearly, he didn't have a lot to say to her, either. She let him know exactly what she thought of the meeting with one finger while putting the phone back to her ear. "Yeah, no, Mycroft wanted to chat is all. I'm on the way home now. Can you guys put Jemma back on?"

Instead of giving the phone back to Jemma, John simply bid her goodbye and hung up, leaving Rosie alone with her thoughts, watching the scenery pass by the water-screened window.

\------

"So, on one hand we have the woman he was having an affair with, and on the other hand we have his wife." Rosie sucked on the end of her pencil, examining the crime board she'd made on Jemma's mirror. Though the mirror-cupboard took up half the wall, she was trying to use as little space as possible. Humming under her breath, she taped a red bit of strong from the card that said 'Mistress' to the one that said 'Therapist'. "I'm almost eighty percent sure that they're the same person, or at least connected."

Jemma, sitting cross legged on the bed, leaned forward and squinted. "Rapist?"

"Therapist. Put your glasses on, Jem, this serious stuff." The crime board was.... lacking, though. Didn't look very serious. Currently, it was arrow-shaped with a photo of Lowe at the base, string tying him to his wife, his mistress, and his therapist. Rosie frowned and sat down next to her best friend, absently plaiting Jemma's bushy red hair. "This is ridiculous. It doesn't make sense."

"That's because you're seventeen, you're untrained, and our board consists of four bits of paper and five bits of red string." Jemma pointed out as she pushed her thick white glass over the bridge of her nose. She blinked, hard, then stood up to properly examine the board. She touched the 'Therapist' card with two fingers, before turning to Rosie. "We need to find out what therapist he went to."

"Good plan, few problems." Rosie started counting on her fingers, pacing the room. "One, we're teenagers so we can't say we're FBI like those guys do in that show, two, I'm grounded possibly for life for getting in a car with a stranger, and three, do you have a clue where to start looking?"

Jemma sighed and leaned against the wall, drumming her fingertips against the snowy plaster. "Technically, you're not grounded yet. Only when you leave my house. So, all we have to do is wait for you to be.... ungrounded." She shrugged and smiled, white teeth flashing against dark skin as she covered her mouth with the back of her hand. Rosie shook her head in bewilderment. Ever since they were kids, Jemma had always covered her smiles, but Rosie could never understand why.

"Alright, so do we have a plan then?"

Flicking her plait behind her shoulder Jemma tossed the pen to Rosie. "Go home, grovel, beg. Get a light sentence, and when it's over, we're going to find the mystery therapist."


End file.
